


a reasonable amount of trouble

by visiblemarket



Series: Historical AU Meme [2]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, M/M, Period-Typical Sexism, ish, period typical internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10848483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: They drove on, tense and wounded — the streets were far from empty and the patter of raindrops on the car made his skin itch.Do you ever miss England?he’d been asked once, by a beautiful woman with a penthouse apartment and silk sheets.Only when it rains, he’d said, feeling romantically inclined.





	a reasonable amount of trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyHedoniste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHedoniste/gifts).



> I came up with a meme asking folks to [send me a pairing and a historical AU for me to write one scene of](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/160164593981/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-historical-au-and-ill). [ladyhedoniste](http://ladyhedoniste.tumblr.com/) asked for [John/Chas, 1920's noir detective AU!](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/160418251721/ladyhedoniste-replied-to-your-post-send-me-a).

The rain-slicked streets of New York flowed out before them — the sheen of streetlights on asphalt ahead, the harsh glare of headlights behind — and Chas was talking again.

Chas was always talking when John least wanted him to. To John, _at_  John, steady, concerned patter, well-intentioned but rarely amounting to much.    

“I don’t _mind_ ,” he was saying, meaning he very much did. “I don’t _mind_  being your muscle or your driver or your errand boy. Just don’t want to be your damn ambulance again, all right? So next time you decide to cheat a kingpin in _his own_  illegal gambling den—"

“Didn’t bloody _decide_  anything,” John muttered around the handkerchief pressed to his nose. “And it was for a case, all right?"

“Oh yeah? And keeping the money, was that for the case too?"

John grinned to himself at that, widening the cut on his lip and sending another sluggish trickle of blood flowing.

Chas looked over at him and rolled his eyes. 

“You got there, anyway,” John said, conciliatory, but Chas wasn’t ready to be placated. 

“Yeah, and maybe if you’d told me, or left me a damn note, I would’ve shown up _before_  they broke your nose and kicked your ribs in."

“Didn’t break my bloody nose."

“And your ribs?” 

John was silent on that front — the wet crack and swift, sharp pain had been unmistakable — which was answer enough for Chas.

“I’m here to _deter_  bloodshed, John, not—" Chas grimaced to himself, obviously ashamed. “Not cause it.” 

_Could’ve fooled me_ , John knew better than to say. Chas swept through rooms of dangerous men like a berserker of old. No particular grace or art to it, just hot, brutal rage. Armed with nothing a shotgun and a casual disregard for his own safety. It was in those moments — few and far between, perhaps more common lately — that John could believe he loved him. _My hero_ , John had said, rolling his eyes, once he’d clambered to his feet, once it was just the two of them left standing. Once he was sure Chas was close enough to catch him if he fell.

He’d meant it. 

“Let me buy you a drink, mate,” he said, hopeful: a drink was usually all it took, for Chas to forget his preference was for women, that John’s touch was toxic, that getting involved was a guaranteed death sentence. A drink in the right sort of place, and it’d net him a long, proper fuck with minimum awkwardness in the morning.

He’d found Chas in a place like that — drunk, quiet, wearing the too-common uniform of a returning soldier: the long unfocused gaze and brittle wariness, like he expected to blink and find himself back in hell. Would’ve left him there, too — spiritually lost and emotionally ragged wasn’t John’s type — but he’d needed a driver and Chas had needed a job. He was an incredible bargain, truth be told: a driver, bodyguard, and nursemaid scold all in one. 

Chas looked over at him, displeased, almost disgusted. “I’m taking you home.” 

_Even better_ , John thought, tilting his head back — he could feel blood from his nose dripping down his throat, could taste the salty metallic tang of it in his mouth.

They drove on, tense and wounded — the streets were far from empty and the patter of raindrops on the car made his skin itch. _Do you ever miss England_? he’d been asked once, by a beautiful woman with a penthouse apartment and silk sheets. _Only when it rains,_ he’d said, feeling romantically inclined — it’d won him a few nights in a warm bed, watching the city be battered by a spring storm.  

But the truth was: no, he didn’t miss England. Never had, and especially not when it rained. 

Chas stopped the car. Turned to look at John, waiting for him to apologize, or leave, or both. 

“Come up for a cuppa?” John said instead, and Chas sighed deeply — as if he’d anywhere better to be, as if he had a home and a family John was keeping him from. He didn’t, of course — hadn’t, not for a long time. Most days, John wasn’t cruel enough to be glad.  

Chas followed him anyway, through the drizzle of rain and up two flights of creaking wooden stairs to his flat. Once there, he bustled off as he always did, fetching the kettle, the water, a bowl and a washcloth. Set the water boiling, pushed John down onto one of the rickety wooden chairs round the old table. Took the other for himself, and went about unbuttoning John’s waistcoat and sliding it off his shoulders. Began wiping the blood off John’s face, fingers steady but careful. Silent, as usual, except for the low, empathetic hisses whenever John winced. 

The kettle whistled, and Chas rose — the man’d yet to learn to make a proper cup of tea but John was used to it by now, wouldn’t take it any other way. The hot water stung his split lip but he drank it anyway. Chas watched him carefully, green eyes steady, and once he was done, leaned in.

Pressed his ear against John’s chest without so much as a by-your-leave, not that John was particularly opposed, and said: “Breathe.”

John did, slow and deep: the rise of his chest set his ribs aching, but not so much he couldn’t enjoy the opportunity to run his fingers through Chas’s dark silk hair as long as Chas let him.

Eventually, Chas pulled back. “You’re all right,” he said, meaning no tell-tale wheeze of a pierced lung — John could’ve told him as much, but it’d’ve meant not having Chas’s warmth and scent and careful hands against him.  

“Am I, then?” John said, looking up at him. Chas wasn’t as close as before, but still close enough to touch, if he wanted. And, drink or no, Chas wanted: to touch him, to kiss him — John knew that look, the soft gaze, the part of his lips — but he wouldn’t, not without an excuse. John debated giving him one for a second too long, and Chas stood up. 

“Come on,” he said, not quite meeting John’s eye. “Let’s get you to bed."

To bed John went — peeling off his damp shirt, stepping out of his trousers. Chas wandered about him, gathered up the old papers John’d left on the far side of the bed and moving them into careful stacks on the floor. Shook his head at the pile of unwashed dishes on the bedside table, wrinkled his nose as he stacked and ferried them back to the kitchen.

John didn’t bother watching him go. Leveraged himself onto the narrow bed, wincing as he went. Breathed a long sigh of relief once he was settled — hardly the softest bed he’d ever slept in, but it was, at least, his. 

“Been a while since you had company, huh?” Chas said, returning.

“What’s it to you?” 

Chas blinked, apparently surprised at the tone and John shut his eyes, partly from exhaustion, partly because it seemed easier.

“Nothing, I guess,” Chas said, carefully. 

John opened his eyes, just enough to hazard a glance: Chas was looking around, searching for something. A blanket, apparently, because having found it he returned to John’s side.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that?"

Chas laughed. “Yeah,” he said, covering him up. “I know."

“I’d marry you if I could."

Chas’s hands stilled. “You’d make a terrible wife,” he said, finally. Dropped his gaze, fiddling with the edge of the blanket, clearly debating whether to leave it be and back away. 

“‘course I would. You’d be the wife.” Chas scoffed at that, shaking his head, but John continued. “I’d be the husband — a bloody terrible husband, no question. Running off on you, screwin’ around. Comin’ home a mess for you to take care of."

“So exactly as you do now, but I’d also have to cook for you?” 

As if Chas had never done so before, but John let it lie. “I'd come home to you, though. Every night."

Chas sighed, and tucked the blanket around John’s neck. “Get some sleep, John.” Seemed about to stand, but reached out to pat John’s chest first. Firm, comforting, as you would to soothe a child. “I’ll be by in the morning."

_Stay_ , John knew better than to say.

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> It's entirely possible I don't know what noir is. 
> 
> ~~What you do you _mean_ it's not Richard Siken level gay yearning  & implied violence?~~


End file.
